


1984

by fingersfallingupwards



Category: Queen (Band), Smile (Band)
Genre: Chance Meetings, Character Study, F/M, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Reminiscing, Smut, but mostly a survey of Tim Staffell, for zest purposes, with a dab of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29582298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingersfallingupwards/pseuds/fingersfallingupwards
Summary: Tim was there when the seeds were being sown over science fiction and their late-night musings about childhood cats and the future. Brian’s soft voice was suited for the nighttime— or so Tim remembers thinking. Over the steady puffs of a joint, their minds expanded as the Hollies rotated under the record needle. It was all so simple, once…Brian and Tim meet by chance in 1984. It stirs up memories of all kinds.
Relationships: Brian May & Tim Staffell, Brian May/Tim Staffell, slight
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23
Collections: Tim Staffell Appreciation Weekend 2021





	1984

**Author's Note:**

> Infinite gratitude to the most amazing and astonishing beta who helped me in my times of trouble, [johnjie❣️](https://johnjie.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Special thanks to [RushingHeadlong](https://rushingheadlong.tumblr.com/) for putting together this event and answering way too many of my random questions. Also for organizing all the Tim info to help make it accessible for writers like me!🙇

+

Tim stares out the bus window, past the streaky shapes of people and trees. In his mind, the color blend for the coach cars, Annie and Claribel, is coming together. He might finish the models of their faces today, if the base dries without cracking over lunch—

Abruptly, Thomas the Tank Engine and all his friends go flying out of Tim’s mind as he spots a wave of dark hair bouncing down the street. As the bus passes, Tim sees a flash of straight nose, smack dab in the middle of familiar, even features.

It’s not that Brian’s curls are familiar to Tim’s memories —he remembers the heat-pressed waves and short bob better— but he’s not ignorant of music press. Admittedly, some days he’s tried to be. Still, the dark head and spindly legs have Tim pulling the bus cord before he quite realizes it.

Tripping past the biddy with three bags, he pays his fare and swings onto the street. He jogs to catch up to the tall figure heading for the corner.

“Brian! Hey, Brian! Brian May!”

Brian falters but doesn’t turn right away. Tim’s smile falters along with his raised hand. Brian probably gets hollered at all the time these days; likely mobbed by fans as sure as the sun rises.

Before Tim can think better and put his hand down, Brian turns, mangling a weak smile before he meets eyes with Tim.

“Tim!” Brian’s smile transforms, hinging open as he strides closer. Tim’s own grin returns as Brian reaches him and extends a hand. “Oh, goodness. How are you?”

“Alright, not too bad, and you?” There’s a gleeful friction in their brief handshake that buzzes along Tim’s brain. Not so changed Brian didn’t recognize him.

“Good, yeah. I can’t complain.” Their hands break and they linger in the street, all smiles. “God, but it’s been ages. When was it last?”

Tim tilts his head up as he thinks. “Must’ve been the Morgan show in ’72, right?”

In truth, it hadn’t been much of a meet-up. Brian, Freddie and Roger had blurred in the scenery of Morgan’s performance. Tim can’t recall how much time he spent on friends from his old college band and their young-looking bassist, riding high as he was on his new prog group with a music deal in _Rome_. Well, he’d been humbled later.

Brian nods. “Right. That was a good show. You had _Earth_ worked into one of the numbers, if I remember correctly.”

“Yeah, in _Nova Solis._ It worked well there. I always liked that song.” Tim rolls his shoulders, remembering a time he nearly… He hesitates over a self-deprecating smile. “You know, I almost called you to help when I moved out of my parents place. Thought better of it when I saw you were at the Hippodrome, playing something for the old BBC.”

Brian squints, as though glancing down the line of innumerable concerts to locate the specific in question. “I think I remember that. We weren’t at our best then. Rough cuts, you know. But, yes, it’s just as well. We were already hauling equipment around that day. Otherwise…” He trails off meaningfully.

Tim smiles. He genuinely feels it— glad, he means. Brian’s eyes are working over him with the easy knowledge of longtime friends.

Tim tries not to shift under the scrutiny. Is Brian noticing the weight that’s settled on him with a proper job bent over making models all day? His hair’s much shorter, though still dark and flicking out. He tucks the longer ends behind his ears and tries for a smile.

“You’re looking well,” Brian says at length, a familiar warmth in his voice.

“Not too bad, making models for telly and commercials.” Tim shifts. “I’m on lunch now, actually.”

“Oh. Do you…” Brian stops. “If it’s no trouble, I mean—”

Brian’s hemming draws a smile to Tim’s face. “Write it out in calligraphy, shall I?”

He’s rewarded by Brian’s eased tension, the open shift of his expression. “In gold filigree,” he deadpans.

They fall into step together, Brian’s long gait slowing to match Tim’s far shorter stride.

“Curry alright?” Tim asks. “Do you have time to sit down, or should we head for a chippy?”

Brian rolls his shoulders, hands jammed in his trouser pockets. He slouches the same, although it does nothing to bridge the vast gap of their heights. It’s habit, Tim knows, the same way he always tries to appear just the slightest bit taller where he can, cracking just over five foot and change.

“It’s nothing in particular. I was going to meet our manager early to talk about a few things. We have a tour coming up in Europe and we just got back from recording in California. Actually, he might be grateful to make it through his own lunch, come to think.”

“Oh, America?” Tim remembers his half a year bumming around beaches and playing back in ‘71. It never went anywhere, least of all a record studio. He’s been trying to let go of this missing-the-train feeling for years, so he musters a smile. “How was that?”

“It was better than Munich.” The subdued tone dams up any unwitting guilt and Tim studies Brian’s profile. He wonders where Brian’s wandered in their time apart. It’s unknowable.

“It’s bound to be, I think. I thought you looked healthy and tan. Soaked up all that sun for me, did you? And played the Ventures?”

That earns a small smile. “A missed opportunity. I’m sure Rog would have gotten a kick from doing _Wipeout,_ though Freddie might’ve complained about there being nothing to sing. _”_

“How is Roger?”

Brian grimaces, but it’s the lightest twist of his lips. “You wouldn’t believe it, but almost the same.”

Tim laughs hard at that. “I can only imagine what he gets up to with all the money at his disposal.”

“Him and Freddie both.” Brian groans. “Both of them have the attention spans of children… but don’t let me go on about them. Tell me more about your work.”

Tim smirks, and briefly describes the Thomas the Tank Engine project and his new color mixing.

“Is that… er, is that preferred to the other way?” Brian asks, ever at sea amidst the non-musical arts despite his time around Tim and Freddie. Still, Tim’s flattered by the effort and briefly explains, before turning the subject back onto Brian. He’s quick to settle into his own issues and opinions, but catches himself and stares Tim down with something like warm humor.

Brian seems to have shifted from the anxious, almost compulsory spilling of his thoughts Tim remembers, because he pivots the conversation back to Tim and his work-life more and more as they talk. It makes Tim feel quite cozy despite the January air. In this way, bouncing tidbits of their lives back and forth, they make it to a curry place.

It’s cheap and quaint, perfect for an artist on a tighter purse, although Tim doubts it’s quite to Brian’s usual standard. He’s hardly going to steer them to the Ritz though, is he?

Brian cozies into the booth’s cushion, red-cheeked from the cold outside air. Now that they’re seated across from each other, Tim takes the moment of equalised height to observe in his friend. He’s stayed remarkably the same. His hair is longer and tautly curled, but his face is still the planes of cheekbones that Tim remembers. His eyes are more tired, and there’s a few wrinkles settling into his cheeks, but he’s kept remarkably young for someone so on the go.

Brian remarks on the wealth of vegetarian options after they order, leading to a brief summary of his experiments in vegetarianism.

Tim tips his head into a stretch. He’s amused to see how Brian’s concerns about animals and intelligent life have sprouted in his adult life. Tim was there when those seeds were being sown over science fiction and their late-night musings about childhood cats and the future. Brian’s soft voice was suited for the nighttime— or so Tim remembers thinking. Over the steady puffs of a joint, their minds expanded as the Hollies rotated under the record needle. It was all so simple, once…

“I’ve done it again.” Brian interrupts his own rambling and jars Tim from his reminiscing. “I’m sorry. I spend so much time fighting to speak in the band that I just talk over people outside of it.”

“I haven’t noticed.” Tim always rather prided himself on being able to draw Brian out from his inner world.

“I have… Though maybe I don’t always. It’s easier to notice around you, because you’ve always let me go on. Haven’t you?”

It’s true that Tim used to listen, long after most people turned away or made excuses. But that was their loss. Tim’s an easy-going sort, like a wandering tide. He’s never felt the pull to make himself heard over others and is happy to let those who need to talk _talk_. Brian, particularly, only ever needed a friendly ear before his carefully constructed thoughts spilled out like a bursting dam.

“I’ve never minded.”

Brian shakes his head. “No, I’d rather hear about you than hash out my old business.”

Tim would hesitate to call Brian’s life old business, but there’s a bend to his shoulders that’s different from even his usual stoop. Tim wonders about the bass player whose name hasn’t passed Brian’s lips, but he demurs.

“What do you want to know?”

It’s a simple question, but Brian’s eyes shift above Tim’s, land on a red and gold cloth cascading down the wall.

“I don’t mean to presume,” he mumbles.

“No harm in asking.” Before Brian can continue his hedging into next week, Tim says, “Let’s have it.”

“Do you… are you still playing music?”

The question stings; wind-burned skin from where the train rushed past Tim on the way to success. Even worse is Brian’s careful phrasing—as though Tim needs gentling. He’s has had a long time to deal with the feeling; much longer than Brian sitting across from him, reckoning with it peripherally and anew.

“Always have done,” Tim says at length. Brian’s eyes dart back to his. “After Morgan fell through, I tried a few more things, but there didn’t seem much doing. I started putting more time into my model making to make ends meet, and then, what with getting married… music’s had to become a hobby. I’ve never stopped, though. I still play with groups around the area.”

He’d known musicians who buried their instruments after giving music a proper try, some even on his art team. The disappointment, the feeling of being unheard, of watching others (less or more talented) catch on and climb up to glitz and fame— it’s sour, still enough to make Tim’s eyes water on occasion. But the loss didn’t temper his appetite nor his joy in playing, even if his audience is few these days.

“Good, that’s good,” Brian exhales. “I’m sure your singing is still great. You always had that powerful voice.”

Did he? Tim scratches his head, a little embarrassed from the praise. A powerful voice, and yet lacking the desire to actively practice and better himself, and then there was stage presence…

“Freddie really grew into his,” Tim replies, shifting the topic.

Brian blinks. “Er, yes. He did, didn’t he? No more of that odd little vibrato. I wasn’t sure if you’d, well, been keeping up with us considering all you have going on.”

The blend of unselfconscious awkwardness has Tim smiling.

“Course I did. Honestly, it helped me feel better about leaving.” Or, more truthfully, somedays it had.

Brian’s brow furrows, bemused. Tim goes on.

“It’s nothing like what I would have done, the costumes and the lights, all that _drama_. It’s not me at all. So, I think it’s not that I missed out so much as it wasn’t meant to be me.” His hands splay on the table, open and almost hapless. He’s had his moments of bitterness, the dark feeling of watching his former bandmates’ career climbs while his own slunk to a mere afterthought, but… he couldn’t and wouldn’t do what Freddie and John did; it just wasn’t in Tim’s character. Even Humpy Bong, a project that fit his personality and musical tastes, didn’t take off. Tim can take a well-earned loss when he gets one… or at least he’s been learning to, in this life.

Brian still looks perturbed. Tim knocks his leg under the table.

“You can thank me for leaving any time you like.” He smiles a little crooked, a little deprecating. It’s worth it when Brian chuckles, his mass of curls shaking.

“We thought it was over, seeing you on Top of the Pops,” Brian says, lighter.

“You got your revenge, didn’t you?”

“I’m not sure we avenged anything. Top of the Pops; it’s a bit naff, isn’t it?”

They laugh for a moment, a blend of sounds that almost startles Tim for the deepness of their tones. He rubs at his facial hair, wondering when and how they went and grew up.

“So, what do you think?”

Tim scoffs. “Of what, Top of the Pops? Not fit for public consumption.”

Brian’s index finger presses into the table, his eyes intent. “The records.”

Tim almost continues their line of easy flippancy, but Brian’s looking him head-on, genuine curiosity edging his expression. As though Tim’s opinion is still worth something.

Tim’s neck feels hot. “Well, I’ve bought them all up to the one with the leather cover. Very Elvis’ comeback special. The one after I haven’t yet bought. I’ve been busy with work and—”

Brian winces. “I don’t know if I can recommend our most recent, actually. Maybe this one that’s coming out next month... maybe.”

“Don’t you have that song with Bowie on this last one?”

Brian shifts. A twisted-up frustration in how he rolls his shoulder-blades, something like embarrassment.

“I dunno if it would be your style. I don’t know if it’s my style. Our direction has gotten… well, it’s gotten very muddled of late. We’re only now figuring out how to move forward again.”

“Well,” Tim starts. He thinks to mention disparate directions happen with every band, that it happened with Smile. Tim had wanted to dig deeper than the heavy Zeppelin sound. He wanted the earthy, jangling piano and guitar he’d heard echoing across the pond. He wanted his own voice kicking in on top, more real and natural than the produced direction British music was taking. But Smile had no intention of branching with Tim’s evolving taste, so he left to follow his own star. Tim wants to reassure Brian that diverging styles are as natural a change as growing is.

Glancing up reveals a different mix of memories in Brian’s eyes, distant but certainly not cast so far back as Tim’s. And why should they be? Tim exhales, knowing better than to mention such ancient history.

He shifts his focus to the present and doesn’t regret it.

“I’m sure the guitar on it is brilliant. Probably worth the purchase. I’ve been amazed at what you’ve done with the Red Special. Whole dixie bands and such. She only just sounds like herself.”

Brian’s eyes light up. “She is versatile. The sounds I’ve been able to make with the engineers are just amazing. We’ve put her through the paces on this most recent one too.”

They fall into their narrow, familiar spiral of old, well-trodden musical discussion. When the waiter brings their curry they only just break away to thank him, then carry on between globs of red curry and naan.

It’s nice talking about music again, even if it is intractably different. Brian’s language is so much more precise and technical. Even so, he accepts Tim’s vague and rustier commentary like it carries water, even if they aren’t collaborating. They still share the same passion that brought them together, and Tim doubts that will ever change.

Tim wipes his hands of dripping curry when he’s finished. He takes care to remove his wedding ring and give it a good once over. He’s careful with it, after losing it in a model’s head and spending hours redoing his hard work after digging it out.

“Tied the knot with Pamela-Ann a few years ago,” he supplies when he sees Brian watching him. “You?”

“Chrissie, actually.” His expression is lackluster even as his tone stays perfectly mild. It has Tim dropping his hands beneath the table and slipping his ring on undercover.

Perhaps it’s foolish, but Tim always rather thought Brian would end up in some passionate romance. Such an introverted guy, with an intense verve for connection and understanding. Tim pictured some brash girl relishing unwinding Brian, pulling him along into her lighter orbit.

But then, maybe some of Brian’s issues were in those very internalized and romantic notions. They seemed to stopper him up as much as they cast him out upon the world, hand grasping and searching. Tim’s suddenly struck by a memory rising among the tangle of unpondered youth. Something he’d never paid thought to in the years between, and yet now, welling to the surface with Tim’s steadily flushing skin.

They were only seventeen, at some kind of mixer. The whole band had rolled up but soon paired off with their dates or with girls who were game enough to be chatted up.

Tim remembers staying back, watching Brian fit his hands awkwardly around his drink and glance longingly across the hall. Any time a nice girl passed by his eyes would dart down again, paralyzed by proximity and the potential of collision. Tim had an easier time. He didn’t mind listening when girls talked, enjoyed wringing out smiles and laughter. His serenity was a change that had girls straying closer, quite at odds with Brian’s tenseness.

It bothered Tim, even then, that Brian struggled so much. He was a great bloke; he just went arse-over-teakettle when trying it on with girls. But it didn’t change that he was thoroughly decent, and would make someone very happy, by Tim’s adolescent reckoning.

They’d come to pick up girls, but Tim didn’t extend himself. Instead he lingered over an hour with Brian as the rest paired off, chatting and fishing for something to get him to relax.

“Way it’s going, we’re better off having a wank between the two of us,” he said, trying to make the night alright. It was just a joke, but Brian’s face had crumpled with such relief.

“Yeah, there’s nothing doing here, is there?” His hands twitched at his sides, fidgeting over his jeans. “You suppose… the van?”

Tim’s mouth had fallen open. He hadn’t meant… But Brian’s expression was lighter than Tim had seen all night. It had just seemed the decent thing, to fish out his keys and give them a jangle.

Tim wasn’t the type to put anyone down. He was far more likely to roll with things as they came, and that’s how he had found himself with his trousers shimmied down his hips and arse chafing on the cheap carpet of the van, Brian’s long, knobby knees knocking into him as he sorted himself, red-faced but so much more at ease here than in the party. It had made Tim wonder if Brian wasn’t the type for men after all, or if he wasn’t, whether he should be.

Because Tim had seen Brian looking after girls, gaze enchanted and perplexed with longing. Yet despite that, he rarely stepped closer, struggled to ingratiate himself into their beds without the Red Special playing intermediary. Brian’s chin dropped to his chest, reminding Tim of the bent-necked way he played that guitar, as he started feeling himself up.

Tim tried to busy himself with the same, despite the hurry of his thoughts. His hand felt uncomfortable on himself, dragging down the foreskin in a way that felt loud in the cloistered van. He petted his slick head, nursing it.

Brian didn’t seem to have the same problem, his hand already working down and up again. Tim wondered if his palms were sweating, the way they sometimes got when he was worked up and dropping Tim’s bass before a performance.

There in the van, having a communal wank, Tim remembered taking that fine-boned hand after seeing Cliff Richard live. The crowds had begun to smother after the closer. Brian was motionless then, still rocking back on the final ring of _Move It._ Tim had reached for him only so they wouldn’t be separated. Brian’s hand had been slick in his, long fingers clutching even as he continued to peer up at the stage with a yearning that Tim was then growing to understand. Something in the music. He had known; had wanted it too. Two boys clinging together in the hot crowd, slick palmed and hungry. Feeling the same thrill.

It wasn’t new that they excited each other. They investigated everything that turned them on, setting Bo Diddly and _Rubber Soul_ on rotation in Tim’s bedroom _._ This now, with their knees jostling, hot, felt like its own kind of exploration and discovery, always in the safety of the other’s company.

Glancing at Brian was instinctual. He was across from Tim (so often was), and Tim didn’t mind seeing him so much even in this situation, didn’t mind seeing Brian’s hair frizzed out from sweat and humidity, or the fingers he knew so well from practicing finger-picking together. But he wasn’t thinking about those hands, Brian’s hands, except oh, he _was._ Tim bit his lip as he spilt hot and embarrassed over himself.

Tim looks down at the chequered pattern of the tablecloth of the restaurant, feeling hot and alert with the slam of memories. Boys messing around, confused and unaware of their and the world’s boundaries. But it had been safe with the two of them, all of their fumblings had been— musical or otherwise.

He looks at Brian’s hands on the table, fists closed and pale knuckles rapping against each other as he stews in thought. Tim relents the habitual twisting of his ring.

Such small moments amidst all the years they’d shared. Yet, in retrospect, they feel like the _complete understanding_ Brian was always going on about with that earnest naïveté in his eyes. How could they anticipate that understanding and unselfconscious exchange would be so fleeting? He wants to tell Brian that they had it, that he doesn’t need to scour the stars or crowds for something they once possessed without deliberate effort or recognition… But the disparity of their lives chafes. The marriages, jobs and places, countries even. Tim’s ongoing fight to feel enough when he can still hear the train whistling past when he closes his eyes. All of it has his tongue slow and clumpy, like cold modelling clay in his mouth.

And whether it’s by association or in desperation, he asks, almost redundantly, “So, Freddie and Mary finally split, then?”

“Why do you ask?” Brian’s whip quick response has Tim still in his seat. Right— many people try to pry open the secrets of Queen these days. Tim just didn’t realize he was counted as one of them.

Brian winces.

“Sorry. Uh, yeah, years back. He’s doing alright. He’s well, you know Fred.” Brian shakes his head. “Burning the candle at both ends. You wouldn’t think he’s the elder of us, would you?”

Tim laughs halfheartedly as he tries to forget this suddenly glimpsed gap, and every other one, between them.

“By all of a year or two.”

“I feel old, anyway.” Brian taps at his plate, and Tim thinks he almost looks it, only…

“Mate, I’m the one with a 9 to 5! How do you think I feel?”

That earns one of Brian’s closed-mouth smiles. “Yes, you’re the working man between us. Kids as well then?”

They both fuss with their wallets and pass pictures of the kids around. Tim’s relieved, yet disappointed somehow, to find Brian’s hand dry and steady where their fingers fumble. Then again, it’s not 1965 anymore. And Tim’s learned to accept that, and any other loss, on the chin.

After leaving the restaurant, they linger on the street. Tim has to get back to work, and he’s quite sure Brian has better places to be. He says the latter aloud and Brian’s mouth draws together, stubborn.

“It would do them some good to wait on me for a change.”

“My crew can’t wait, unfortunately.” Tim smiles. “It’s nice seeing you, Brimi. I’m glad we caught up.”

“Yes, me too. We should do dinner sometime, with the families.”

Tim nods but doesn’t quite put stock in it, not with Brian jetting off to America soon. There will be a new album to preoccupy his mind, and Tim’s never tried to combat Brian’s narrow concentration.

“It would be nice,” he says instead, because it would be.

“You know, you said we would see each other in 1984,” Brian says. “And now we have."

Tim blinks, bemused, before the memory surfaces. A school performance.

Most nights they were too shy to interact with the audience after the music stopped. It was nothing like the cheek they had in college with Smile, pumped up by Roger’s brimming need to showboat. Still, one night when the six members of their school group were curling up their cords and shuffling around on-stage after the final notes of their set, Tim hesitated over his thanks.

Adrenaline was slipping through his veins and he’d felt so close to something he’d seen that night with Cliff Richard.

In his best impression, he said “Thank you ladies and gentlemen, we’ll see you in 1984.”

The band had heckled him afterwards, poking at his ribs as they jostled in the van down the road home. However, Brian, in his thoughtful way, had suggested Tim might end all their concerts in that manner.

“It makes it sound like a promise that we’ll see them in the future,” Brian reasoned, his eyes dark grey and fervent in the night. “That’s a good feeling from a band.”

Tim laughed, almost embarrassed by himself. It was almost twenty years away, then. A made-up number, almost. 1984 was only for Orwell’s book, and not for a future any of them imagined they’d be living in. None of them could fathom anything more than what they’d yet lived.

Now, at 36, Tim can put it into perspective.

He grins, feeling the rails of memory lining up between them as they shuffle down the pavement.

“We did! It’s no Orwellian horror, either.”

“No, not as bad as all that.” Brian grins. “Though perhaps the thought police only go by different names.”

It’s so reliably Brian that Tim’s head falls back as he laughs. The edges of anxiety creasing his mind about regret, about worry, about the lost past— all of it fades now. Brian is still reliably himself. There’s a comfort in the growth they shared together, exciting one another, in knowing Brian first, before anything else. In seeing it all here still.

He relaxes again to find Brian watching him, gaze intent.

“Take care of yourself, Brimi.”

Tim sticks his hand out, gives a crooked smile.

Brian’s fingers twitch out, his palm a little wet. “Yeah, you too, Tim.”

+

**Author's Note:**

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> Enjoy the rest of Tim weekend folks!
> 
> Bother me on [le TUMBLR](https://rock-it-tonight.tumblr.com/).


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